If Walls Could Talk
by Blind writer
Summary: Written for cgkinkmemeii.  Nina was far from the only person who took advantage of Table-kun's willingness to be used to relieve sexual tension - given the student council is filled with hormonal teenagers who aren't getting laid.  Crack drabble.


_A/N: Written for cgkinkmemeii. Crackalicious! Color me shocked at using first person present tense, but that's just how it happened. I wanted to fit in Kallen and Shirley, but somehow couldn't manage. And we all know about Lelouch. *smirk*_

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><p>There is a saying, "if the walls could speak, what stories they could tell". I'm not quite sure about the walls. They're too rigid and plain, and actually rather prudish and elitist. I often wonder why they're so popular. All they do is stare on from up high, consorting with the ceiling, doing their best to ignore the steadfast floor.<p>

No one deigns to consider the furniture. Ah yes, the furniture. Now _that_ is what should _really_ be considered. Flexible, mutable, moveable, friendly, and useful, unafraid of others, and eager to please. The furniture is what gives feeling and atmosphere to a place. Why are we looked down upon?

Oh, right, I forgot to mention. My name is Table-kun. I am a piece of furniture. And what stories _I_ could tell. As a table, it is my duty to hold fast, and stay sturdy. We are a helpful breed of furniture, the most used, and thusly, along with the chair, the most useful.

My first unusual task comes one bright day when that blue-haired boy is using me as a makeshift pillow. As duty demands, I stay still, and while I try to make myself more comfortable, there are some things just beyond my control. I collect his drool without comment, but I am startled and jump on my legs when he suddenly begins bumping something firm against one in a languid kind of rhythm. The other humans laugh, waking him, and he promptly flees with a red face, but it is on that day that I realize there are some things I could accomplish as a table that I had previously not considered.

The glasses girl gives me a full confirmation of that theory on the night she makes creative use of one of my corners. Nina is her name, I believe. I stay still that time, and when she completes with a silent, relieved kind of sigh, I smile in my table way.

I suppose the most shocking experience would be the day I gained a human-like penis.

That bubbly blonde, who in the human language is referred to as "President", has always made great use of my table prowess in the past. I support the weight of her stacks of papers (I am dearly sorry, my distant wood brethren), stand sturdy when she presses her weight on my surface, and give wide and open access for her larger pet projects. Most of her projects are interesting and eclectic folk, so I quite enjoy when she is around to introduce me to them. She is always giving me something new and exciting to brighten my days. But one quiet evening, when she comes around only to slap a stick-on penis on my recently cleaned surface, I somehow still manage to be surprised.

But I am a useful table, and I take pride in such. So I hold steady when she crawls on top, and perches her weight on the balls of her feet. I stay still when she impales herself on the dildo contraption, and refuse to sway or release the suction grip as she begins a steady rhythm. When she places her palms down, I do not care when she leaves glaring prints. Nor do I complain when she climaxes and spills her juices over me in fat droplets. I silently smile, glad to be of service, though the dildo is kind of an arrogant dick.

Despite that, I hope to again give President a reliable place she can return to whenever she needs it. That boy named Suzaku certainly does every chance he can, and that is another thing I am prideful about.

For him, it is a little different. I get a visceral thrill, because when he seats himself in the same chair as the one I later learned was named Lelouch (from Suzaku's pants and moans), he touches me directly with something hard and wood-like, similar to myself. I cannot help but rock and buck on my legs when he strokes along my bottom surface. Even though he grips my edges nearly tight enough to leave scratches, I still shudder and shuffle along the floor against his attack. He is the most vigorous and desperate. He is also the kindest, because after he has released, and rests his forehead on the flat top, without fail he will quietly murmur "sorry" or "I'm terrible". I don't quite understand, but I forgive him anyway, and will always allow him the freedom to come back whenever he feels like.

The next day, the one called Lelouch will sit in that same chair, wrinkle his nose a bit in confusion, and lean heavily on my surface to carry on with his work. If he is there, I will see Suzaku's face tinge pink, before he too concentrates on work. Lelouch's knee will lift up, and press against the same spot that was dripping the previous night, and it's all I can do to help Suzaku by sharing a bit of what he gave to me. I don't quite understand why Lelouch always seems discontent with the flaky gift when he stands to leave, but I hope one day he too will learn how helpful I can be.

They say that if walls could talk, they would have stories to tell. Those people have never talked to furniture, and I pity their ignorance. Nonetheless, I continue my duty.

I am a useful table. And this is my pride.


End file.
